


Innocence

by cosmicConundrum



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Ethical concerns, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Oneshot, canonverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 03:09:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9579773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicConundrum/pseuds/cosmicConundrum
Summary: The one thing that had really separated America and England from admitting their feelings to one another was their complicated relationship and even more complicated history. After confessions occur, a first kiss is exchanged, but then England mysteriously pulls away. Can America figure out what is upsetting England?





	

**Author's Note:**

> This has been lying around in my Forbidden Book of Fanfiction Prompts (and Finished Prompts) for several months now, and I only just thought to publish it because I was so tired of seeing it lying around in my drive unread. You're welcome.
> 
> This is mildly angsty and deals with the emotional and ethical implications surrounding their relationship dynamics.

America glanced down, too flustered to try to say anything. He hadn’t expected the night to take this sudden turn, but now that it was happening… well… who was he to say that he wasn’t exactly against all of this happening, anyway? When he finally managed to turn away from his thoughts and glance back up at England, any and all remaining wisps of hesitation evaporated immediately. America knew for sure that yes, he _did_ want this to happen.

England was, well, to put it simply, really beautiful. And forget the fact that America’s opinion was more cliche than one of his awesome romance movies. It was true. England had the sharpest, most green eyes America had ever seen. Eyes that were sometimes so harsh his gaze could probably corrode metal, and sometimes so soft the warm glow emanating from them was enough to make America completely melt on the inside. And it wasn’t just England’s eyes that were beautiful. He had soft, pale skin, a slim, small face, and a sophisticated manner to his movements. America could never quite put a finger on how England managed to give off such vibes, but he accepted the fact with all of his heart, and he was always willing to remember how beautiful he was.

England, the self-proclaimed gentleman who, in reality, wasn’t always as proper and stuffy as he pretended to be. England, whose inner feelings, desires, and hopes were just as delicate as anyone’s. England, who had entrusted those delicate feelings to America.

And right now, they were sharing a rather intimate moment -- sitting together on a couch, the dim lamp on the couchside table providing the only light. It was late in the evening, too late in the evening for this moment to be a casual meetup between friends. Because they probably weren’t friends. At least, not anymore. They had progressed beyond that. And no matter how many times he repeated it to himself… “more than friends, more than friends,” the words would send his heart fluttering against his chest. And to think he hadn’t even known that England returned his feelings until only a few minutes ago. He had been so happy he was afraid his heart would burst.

He hadn’t known he had wanted this for so long. _How hadn’t he?_

England stared back at him, his eyes soft and gentle. His high cheekbones were a light pink color, and a smile lingered on his lips.

Those lips. Those perfect, kissable lips.

Without further words, America had grasped England’s hands, and slowly, hesitantly, leaned in, pressing his lips against the other nation’s. For a brief moment, England gasped. Then reciprocated. He tugged his hands from America’s in order to wrap them around the younger nation’s shoulders, to bring him in closer. This was the first time they had kissed. Ever. At least on the lips, anyway. Both had kissed many, many times before. They were always short, chaste kisses on foreheads and occasionally cheeks if one of them was asleep and unaware. This time was different. Things had changed, they supposed.

England was too busy having a minor heart attack to really say anything. Was this really happening? Was _he_ kissing _America_? He was pretty close to swooning to his knight in shining armor, if he did say so himself.

And poor America, the sweet, sweet dork, was trying so hard to make their first kiss passionate, despite his very obvious lack of experience. England couldn’t help but laugh into the kiss. They parted to breathe, and both nations giggled uncontrollably. _What are we doing,_ England wondered, _we’re not lovestruck teenagers!_

America, for all his ego and confidence, was suddenly very shy and hesitant. He didn’t know what to do. What could he do? What could he say? He had just kissed England, after all. The sheer fact alone was enough to stun him into silence, and maybe possibly cause him to faint. And England, too, was nervous. To be honest with himself, he had just admitted that he had more or less pined after America for centuries. But he had just found out that his feelings were mutual, and what great happiness and joy had filled his heart! He was so warm from joy, he wanted to take a moment to calm his racing heart, but the pounding of his heart and the need to continue drove him to continue, and so he did. He caught America’s lips in another kiss, slightly harsher this time.

America only pulled away when he was sure he couldn’t kiss for a second longer for fear of suffocation. When he opened his eyes again, he saw England smiling at him, England, smiling, actually smiling, at _him_. His green eyes were all crinkled in the corners and he was just, so, ugh. America did not have words. England cupped America’s face with his palms, and leaned in for another kiss.

This time, when they had parted, America wrapped his arms tightly around England’s shoulders, and nuzzled into the crook of the older nation’s neck. There was that faint scent of tea and old books he had found so nostalgic and unconsciously sought after for so long. _Smells nice_ , America’s fuzzy thoughts said. America smiled to himself and breathed in, deeply. He was content with the world. Nothing could be sweeter.

“Arthur…” he whispered, voice muffled by England’s shirt.

England, who had been rubbing circles into America’s back, suddenly froze.

_Arthur..._

The last time he was called that was several centuries ago, back in a sunnier era and a happier time. _Arthur_ … it was what America had called him back when he was a colony. It was a trademark signature of their happiness and their relationship. England had encouraged America to call him Arthur, because they were brothers, and it was more personal. It was more human. He had wanted to show little America the love and affection he himself hadn’t gotten as a child, and in doing so, he pushed the traditional, colder, more formal names away. In turn, England had called America Alfred. A name he chose himself. They had only used those names, those human names, back in America’s colonial days. Those days didn’t last long.

The usage of those names, as well as the close relationship, had ended during the Revolution.

England remembered little Alfred, little Alfie, an adorable child filled with sunshine and laughter. So pure and uncontaminated by the cruelties of the world. Untainted. _Innocent_.

England went rigid.

America noticed England’s sudden coldness, and looked up at the older nation.

“Arthur? Are you okay?” America asked, and his eyes were so full of _innocent_ concern England’s heart threatened to break.

“Don’t call me that,” was all England whispered, before he pushed America away and ran from the room.

All the while, the more morally conscious parts of his mind screamed at him. What had he done? What had he done to poor, sweet, dear America? England knew it was horrendously stupid to run, but he did anyway. He made it all the way to the front door before a hand latched onto his wrist and stopped him.

England whipped around to find America staring at him with a hurt look in his eyes.

“Arthur, don’t go! Please?” America pouted, and England was unwillingly blasted with memories of little Alfred begging him not to leave.

“I can’t do this,” England said, and covered his face with his hands, “I can’t.”

America hesitated, and he felt his chest constrict painfully. England didn’t want to do this anymore? Did he not mean what he had said not so long ago? America winced at his own stupidity. He had probably done something really stupid and scared England away. He mentally cursed his own inability to kiss properly as well as his inability to read the atmosphere. England still stood, his face in his hands, and he seemed to be sniffling. America jumped into action. Idiot or not, England was clearly upset, and America would do all in his power to comfort the older nation.

America rested a hand on England’s arm.

“Arthur, what’s wrong?” He whispered.

“America, stop. Don’t say my name like that,” England said, and did not move one bit.

America frowned a bit. Why was England so against being called Arthur? America had thought that by calling him that, it would signify the change in their relationship. Hadn’t they confessed to one another less than an hour ago? Why couldn’t they talk to each other on a more personal level? Why couldn’t they move past the cold formalities nations with only political relationships used? Unless… and then it hit him. This was about his colonial days, wasn’t it?

“I’ll stop, then,” America said, and tried patting England’s back soothingly.

Several minutes passed in tense silence. England continued sniffling softly. He looked like he was about to cry. Meanwhile, America continued rubbing England’s back as he whispered soothing nonsense into his ear. Eventually, England let his hands fall to his sides.

“I can’t do this,” England said. “I can’t kiss you and I can’t fall in love with you because it’s wrong.”

And England really couldn’t. This had been his subconscious concern for who even knows how long? England had loved America in a non-brotherly way for more than a century, and he had had trouble coming to terms with his feelings for even longer. While part of England imagined what it would be like to hold America close, to kiss him, gently, another part of him tried so, so hard to repress those thoughts. He was a gentleman, and he needed to be able to control his emotions better. How was it right, under any sort of moral code, for a nation to fall in love with his former colony? They had been brothers, for crying out loud!

All of these facts cemented the harsh reality in England's mind: that he was a perverted old freak. His eyes were heavy with guilt and shame.

“You were my colony…” England added, dropping his voice down to a whisper.

America stared at the older nation in shock, and considered England’s words for a moment before deciding to initiate the thing he did best, and hugged the older nation. England stiffened a little more, but eventually relaxed into America’s warm arms.

“England, you shouldn’t worry about that!” America chided into England’s hair.

“It’s awful, it’s just wrong. I’m just an old pervert,” England whispered, his voice cracking.

“No you’re not!” America said. He continued running his hand up and down England’s back, in the hopes that England would realize his paranoid fears were invalid. “Why is us being together wrong? We may have formerly been brothers, but that’s not how we are now!”

England shut his eyes and tried to clear his tears away, and failed. He simply could not stop feeling disgusted with himself. America didn’t deserve this. Dear, sweet, sweet America...

“You were so innocent back then,” England said, “I can’t let you lose that because of me!”

“I won’t.” America stated.

England opened his eyes, his green, _green_ eyes, and gazed up at America.

“I won’t become less innocent and less of who I was just because I’ve finally fallen in love,” America added, and cracked a small, sweet smile at the older nation.

The part of England’s mind drowning in foggy infatuation wanted to smile and accept the explanation, but he couldn’t. He felt a single tear spill over and run down his cheek. America felt sympathy bubble up in his chest, and he raised a hand to wipe away that tear, and hesitated for a split second, before he did so anyway. England visibly shuddered at his touch, and America all the more had to resist punching himself in the face for being so insensitive.

“It’s been over two centuries since we were brothers,” America continued, and ran his fingers through England’s soft blond hair, “And we’ve both changed since then. Please don’t blame yourself for your feelings. They are mutual, after all!”

England wrapped his own arms around America’s torso, and finally, a single sob escaped his lips as it was muffled by America’s shirt.

“You’re not creepy at all, England. I want this too. We are not related any more than any other random two nations are related. And besides, it’s not like nations don’t have huge age differences. I bet if I had somehow known you when you were little, we would have ended up together anyway…” America stopped, hugged England tighter. “Just please don’t think you’re awful! You’re not.”

There was no reply for a long, long span of time, during which England continued to let out little sobs and America continued to make soft shushing noises as he tried to act as comforting as possible in the same way that England had done to him when he was little.

“So,” America said, eventually, pulling away from England, “Can I maybe possibly kiss you, Arthur?”

England wiped at his face with the back of a hand, and gazed back at America. He did, for a brief instant, see a young boy, running wild and free in a golden field below a shining sun. But when he blinked, that young boy had changed. A young man stood in his place, and he still had that same beautiful smile that doubled as a ray of sunshine in Arthur’s own drab and dreary life, and his eyes were still the same beautiful blue shade as the sky of that very field. And Arthur saw him laughing, his cheeks all scrunched up from smiling so hard; he saw him blushing as he tentatively reached for Arthur’s hand; he saw him resting their foreheads together with the smallest, content smile on his face.

And he felt the dark, doubtful corners of his mind dissipate into the warmth of Alfred’s love.

Arthur’s eyes shone green and bright once more.

“Yes, you can.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still quite busy so I haven't had time to update any of my other fics. Sorry guys!
> 
> And thank you for reading! If you'd like, please check out my other fics under this username! And here is my tumblr, if you are interested: cosmicconundrum.tumblr.com
> 
> [](http://cosmicconundrum.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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